


True Remembrance

by Amity333



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Lucius Malfoy, Alternate Canon, Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Divergence - Battle of Hogwarts, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Rewrite, Character Death Fix, Do-Over, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Draco Malfoy-centric, F/M, Family, Family Issues, Final Battle, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Good Draco Malfoy, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Hogwarts First Year, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Hogwarts House Sorting, Hogwarts Second Year, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hogwarts Third Year, Horcruxes, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Long, Loss, Love, Memory Magic, Mental Health Issues, Narcissa Black Malfoy is a Good Parent, POV Draco Malfoy, Plot Twists, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ravenclaw, Recovery, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Romance, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Second War with Voldemort, Secrets, Slow Burn, Slytherin Politics, Smart Draco Malfoy, Smart Hermione Granger, The Golden Trio, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travelling Draco Malfoy, Time Travelling Hermione Granger, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24737293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amity333/pseuds/Amity333
Summary: They'd carved the runes so carefully, planned the ritual so meticulously - they would die, so that their past selves would survive. The pair would find out better than anyone: there were unforeseen consequences for meddling with time. Time travel 'redo' fic, with a twist. DHr."To rediscover one's past is to insist that the present never was," she whispered. Then silence, save the gentle clinking of glass, a final toast for their final moments."To death, then.""To death," he affirmed, gulping down the liquid.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 20
Kudos: 91





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling.

"It's like…re-remembering something," Hermione explained, leaning over the cauldron. The surface beneath it was marked by a series of interconnected symbols, dimly glowing in the otherwise dark room. Draco leaned away from the concoction, resembling less a potion than liquid ashes. Its fumes stank of death and despair, foul remnants of what his life had become. She carefully picked up the ladle, then slowly scooped the contents into two sets of glass vials. 

"…I see," Draco responded. He hadn't the first time she had explained it. And yet, eventually he'd come to understand. Hermione had been the one to teach him the runes. For countless nights, they'd pored over book after book – learning occlumency, arithmancy, and hundreds of ancient and obscure spells – but Hermione wasn't the brightest witch of their generation for nothing.

She'd designed the ritual from scraps of information on the ancient magics, while he had learned how to draw the symbols and cast the series of incantations to activate them. He'd carved the runes again and again, until his hands had started to cramp, to ensure that on this day they would be – needed to be – perfect. Perhaps he had even grown adept in the art, aided by those tiresome nights in the library and the constant sensation of the magic coursing through his fingertips.

Her gaze flickered up from the potion, meeting his for just half a second, and he shrank back at the _concern_ that he found there. Then her eyes were gone, and the nausea was back in his stomach, churning – but he couldn't afford to be sick, not now.

"The effects of the _Tempore Mutationem_ are drastically different from those of Time-Turners," she stated. "The use of the latter is much more straightforward. The witch or wizard sends their current body into the past, leading to duplicate copies of themselves. And yet no matter how hard they tried, they'd never be able to change it. Attempt to save someone's life, and they might end up causing their death."

They'd discussed it time and again, of course. Yet he knew how much Hermione liked to explain things, to ensure that every possible facet of their plan had been analyzed and re-analzyed.

"But this won't be like that," he nodded. "This time, we can change things from how we've remembered them. Not because we've altered history, but because _they've always been that way_ , and we've simply been remembering wrong this whole time."

He rubbed his forefinger against his thumb. An almost imperceptible movement, and yet a weakness to those who would use it against him. He had learned to never let his true emotions show.

"Quite," she agreed. "It's like snapping a rubber band. Flicking ourselves into the past, and then forwards yet again."

Her soft, warm hand placed one of the vials into his. Chestnut eyes met grey, and the corners of her lips curved upwards. _God, when was the last time he'd seen her smile?_

"To rediscover one's past is to insist that the present never was," she whispered. Then silence, save the gentle clinking of glass, a final toast for their final moments.

"To death, then."

"To death," he affirmed, gulping down the liquid.

-oOoOo-

Voldemort hadn't been a fool. An arrogant psychopath, yes, but not stupid.

Harry Potter had survived the Killing Curse once before, and Voldemort had been left without a body for thirteen years. So when he’d finally stared down upon the boy's limp form in the Forbidden Forest, he decided to personally ensure that Potter was indeed gone.

Yet he wouldn't be the first to approach the boy. Should any surprises be awaiting, the victim would be one quite unfortunate witch.

He brandished his wand and craned his neck to examine Mrs. Malfoy, cloaked in the shadows of the overhanging branches.

And if he were to find out later that she'd lied to him, well…

-oOoOo-

Potter's eyes had been dead. Not emotionless, but unfocused and glassy – as if they weren't _seeing_ Draco, but were simply staring straight through him. Draco wondered if perhaps _he_ wasn't the one who had died, his ghostly presence invisible to all those around him. No doubt it would have been a better outcome.

The Boy Who Lived could not be dead.

Those illusions were shattered when he saw the rest of the body.

Granger had screamed. Weasley had sobbed. Draco had simply felt numb.

The Final Battle had been a slaughter.

-oOoOo-

He'd never been able to recover all the pieces of his mother.

He'd found her hand first. The same hand that had caressed his face whenever he was sick, that had held and comforted him when his father's temper reached its tipping point. Still adorned with a little silver ring on the fourth finger, engraved with the Malfoy insignia.

Granger had been the one to find him, bent over that sole fragment of her corpse. He hadn't responded when she'd spoken to him, not even when she'd shouted his name. He'd simply stood there, frozen, until she'd come up beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder.

And in front of the Mudblood, Draco had cried.

-oOoOo-

The few survivors had been forced to either flee Britain or go into hiding. Slowly, they had been picked off, each week bringing news of another dead mother, friend, brother.

When Dumbledore had died (the mere memory sent shivers down Draco's spine), everyone he'd told of 12 Grimmauld Place became Secret Keepers. Moody had cast wards against Snape and the other Death Eaters, but the security of their headquarters had been compromised. While fleeing from the Ministry that past year, Granger had accidentally apparated Yaxley into the house. The man had been left without his left arm and two lungs. It was the first time she'd had to clean up a body.

Following Snape’s death in the Shrieking Shack – for why would anyone Draco cared about remain alive? – the few remaining Order members hesitantly re-convened in the manor. The Weasleys had even moved in, amongst other families forced from their homes. 

Granger had been the one to drag him there, despite Weasley's fervent protests. ("The bloody bastard's a Death Eater, Hermione! He'll murder us in our sleep!") Three days later, Weasley's accusing glares stopped, hostility shifting to outright avoidance. Draco thought he saw something strange flicker in the man's eyes whenever he approached – weariness, but also an almost-not-quite _sympathy_.

Draco still wasn't sure how much she'd told him. Granger had never mentioned it, and he'd never asked her.

-oOoOo-

Shacklebolt had died within the month. McGonagall had lasted two. Ron Weasley had managed a record of three months before being captured by Death Eaters, held as bait to draw his family out of hiding.

He still remembered the look on Mrs. Weasley's face. A gaze so tired and dead, just like Potter's dead, _dead_ eyes. She'd watched her children slip away one by one, until eventually she'd died too.

Throughout it all, Draco secluded himself in one small room, though he'd never consider it _his_. He'd grip the handle of the door, wanting to go out and say something. _'You're a mother who's lost her children,'_ he'd think. _'I'm a man who's lost his mother.'_ Then he'd remember the disdainful insults he'd hurled at the Weasleys in school, and his hand would slip away from the frame. Who was he to console a family he'd helped destroy?

He was such a coward. Always such a coward.

-oOoOo-

It was the little things.

Like how he couldn't get a glass of water without his hands shaking until the liquid threatened to spill over the rim. The tremor in his legs when he'd walk up the stairs towards the Black family library, never reading with a purpose, but simply an incessant desire to escape from this hellhole, to bury himself in learning until he'd forgotten all that he'd lost.

(He'd made sure to check each one for curses before opening it, of course. Growing up in Malfoy Manor had taught him some important lessons about messing with dark tomes.)

The Blacks' copy of _Most Potente Potions_ was yellowed and old. This section dealt with mind-sharpening elixirs, most notably the _Mentem Acuta_ , renowned for its ability to improve the drinker's focus and memory. Granger had walked in, silently, and began browsing through the nearby shelves. She'd pried out an arithmancy text, and without a word, sat down in the velvet armchair beside him.

They'd continued on like that, day after day, week by week. Sometimes, he wondered if she ever felt like he did, seeking knowledge to replace the emptiness, to distract himself from the pain. Had her thirst for learning ever been motivated by this hidden desire? Had she ever used her studies to hide from such unwanted emotions, afraid that they'd otherwise eat her alive?

Eventually, she'd offer to bring back an extra cup of tea when she went down to the kitchen, and he'd offer to find her a book when she was cross-referencing various texts. When she'd come in one morning, eyes red and bleary, he'd insisted on going down to make the pot. He'd given her the mug, and if she'd noticed the tremor in his hands as they brushed against hers, she hadn't mocked him for it.

"It's a sign of strength, don't you think?" she'd asked him one day, face still buried in the tome. "The world may try to make you tremble, to break every last one of us to pieces, but we keep getting back up."

Draco had frowned. Granger had never been the same after Potter and Weasley had died, had lost that spark of life in her eyes just like the rest. And yet he’d sensed determination in her voice, a firm resolve that she would succeed.

Succeed at what, he knew not.

"What use is it?" he'd whispered back. "When all hope has been lost?"

She'd shut the text, turning to look at him. "That’s just it. If we've lost everything, then what more can be taken from us?"

-oOoOo-

Conjuration magic, governed by Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, enabled the caster to create objects out of nothing. *According to Granger, there were five exceptions: wands, money, isolated body parts, potions ingredients, and food. The last was especially notable when one was forced to go without. Though the quantity of food supplies could be increased, the magic caused its nutritive value to dilute each time.

 _'And no house-elf to fetch us any, either'_ , Draco had sighed. Not that Granger would've agreed to that. He'd stared at the collection of heads lining the wall. Kreacher had become just another body from that bloody battle. And wasn't it just so _sad_ that his head would never be mounted alongside the rest?

-oOoOo-

Their numbers had been dwindling, to openly go out in public a death sentence.

"The glamour will work," she'd insisted. "No-one will pay any attention to the elderly muggle lady buying bread and eggs from the local market."

But she hadn't just gone to the market. Instead she had come back, pale-faced and shaking, with a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ snagged between her fingertips. Later, he'd learn the shopkeeper had left it on the counter while fetching potions ingredients from the back. Though he'd no doubt spelled his merchandise with anti-theft charms, he hadn't paid mind to one insignificant newspaper.

The Death Eaters had been orchestrating attacks outside the U.K. _'Dark Lord Cleans up Muggle Trash,'_ the article had lauded, proudly displaying pictures of the carnage. Hundreds of mangled bodies had lined the city streets, and if two of them didn't just bare a striking resemblance to Granger…

"I obliviated them," she'd sniffled, hands rubbing at her eyes. "I had to do what I could to protect them. I couldn't let them die because of me. I – "

And this time, he'd held her as she sobbed.

-oOoOo-

"Knockturn Alley," Draco had stated, frowning. It wasn't a question, but rather an expression of disapproval. "How'd you steal the ingredients without being caught?"

"I didn't," she’d responded, shifting through the jars of newt eyes and snake scales. "The Blacks had quite a bit of money stored in their chambers. They couldn't keep all their gold at Gringotts. I left ample payment on the front counter."

He had scoffed. "And it was worth risking your life?"

She’d shaken her head. "There was no other choice."

-oOoOo-

"Do you think it's worth it?" he’d asked her one day, as she traced yet another rune from the pile of books by their feet. "To continue to live, after everyone has gone?"

She hadn't responded, which wasn't quite like her. She was always consoling others out of concern, that stupid _Gryffindor_ sort of concern, and her sudden silence had prompted him to continue.

"What does it matter?" He’d laughed. "We're already dead, aren't we?"

Her quill scratched ceaselessly upon the paper. Hermione – for somewhere along the line, she had become Hermione – remained expressionless. She would get like this sometimes, on the worst days, when she was trying not to remember. Draco had understood.

Then she’d looked up and smiled, such an anguished little smile, and said, "July 31, 1991. Nearly a decade after Voldemort's supposed defeat. Ironic, isn't it?"

And Potter’s birthday, Draco realized. He’d hardly gotten her to talk that day, and she’d locked herself in the library all night. Draco had stayed with her, refusing to sleep. Nigh a month had passed, but Draco knew the pain wouldn't fade.

He'd sat down beside her and grasped her hand. His had felt so right in hers, and hers so right in his. Two people, broken and beaten, lost in the dank, dark, and desolate cold. And yet through that one touch - warmth.

-oOoOo-

Floating in an empty abyss, not lost, for there was nothing to find. Yet so much as life begot death, and death begot oblivion, oblivion gave rise to life. The first tendrils of thought rose within the void. They whispered, first softly, then insistently, until their cry could be ignored no longer. Darkness melded into light, and oblivion itself came to shatter.

Draco Malfoy had woken up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Although referenced by Hermione in the Deathly Hallows, the only specifically mentioned exception to Gamp's Law is food. Using evidence from the book, fans have speculated regarding the nature of the other four exceptions. The examples in the story are referenced from "The Harry Potter Lexicon - Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration" (accessible at: https://www.hp-lexicon.org/thing/gamps-law-of-elemental-transfiguration/#:~:text=Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,exceptions to Gamp's Law ).
> 
> This story is mostly identical to canon up until the Final Battle, but there are some exceptions. Draco’s relationship with his father is different than in the books. Many other minor details have also been tweaked (such as the death of Yaxley).
> 
> This story is also cross-posted to fanfiction.net under the same penname. Please note that the A03 currently contains some minor edits that are not yet incorporated in that version. It can be found here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13568611/1/True-Remembrance


	2. Once a Slytherin (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As Draco made to follow his parents out the door, he was interrupted by a quiet voice. “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Malfoy. Every single one,” it whispered, so softly that Draco was scarcely sure he’d heard it. “I must say, this is the first time I’ve sold a wand twice.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Thanks: To all readers who have left reviews, kudos, or put this story on their alert’s list/bookmarks. 
> 
> Warnings: For physical child abuse (not graphic) and some violent scenes.

Draco gasped for air. Molten fire sloshed through his airways, pouring down his trachea and drowning him from the inside out. Half disembodied limbs thrashed, pale blue lips stretching open to scream – but producing only the most pathetic of gurgles. The surrounding sea was an inky black, the water pushing on his eyelids until his vision began to darken and disintegrate. He drew in one last shaky breath –

Two eyes snapped open. He coughed, desperate to expel the burning, icy liquid. He inhaled one gulp of air, then another, until the erratic beating in his chest began to steady. The tremors coursing through his fingers remained for several moments, only dying down as his memories of the inferno died with them. Finally, he rolled on to his side, body still engulfed by the velvet sheets, and slowly untangled himself from the heap.

The room was overwhelmingly bright. He moved to shut the emerald blinds, bathing his surroundings in a more comfortable darkness. Hands resting on the windowsill, he yawned stifledly, struggling to grasp on to the remnants of his fleeting dream. It had been a nightmare, he had been sure, one that had left him feeling trapped and suffocated. Yet for the life of him, he could not remember _what_ had frightened him so.

Draco frowned. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys did not get scared by mere dreams. Truly he had felt only mild alarm, just enough to properly analyse the threat and secure his safety.

“Master Draco?”

His hands snapped off the pane, feet turning sharply to the left. The pathetic creature before him wore only a dusty old pillowcase that sagged down to its knees. Its bulging green eyes peered up at him through the shadows.

“Dobby is sorry for startling young Master Draco!” The house-elf wrang its ears.

“What is it, Dobby?” Draco snapped. Had he let himself become so distracted that he hadn’t noticed the creature apparate into his room?

The house-elf quieted, which irritated Draco even more. “Master and Mistress is calling upon Master Draco,” it finally explained. “They is sending Dobby to tell Young Master to come to the dining hall.”

Draco stiffened. His family rarely ate meals together. His father was a busy man, one who did _not_ like to be kept waiting. And if he were to learn that Draco had slept in late –

The Slytherin pried open his fingers, hardly realising he had clenched his fists. He couldn’t let his emotions slip.

He turned to cast out the elf, and paused. The creature was no longer facing Draco, its torso pressed against the opposite wall. Draco stared. “Dobby, what – ?”

“Bad Dobby, _bad!_ ” it wailed, slamming its head into the plaster. Draco could see welts forming on the creature’s skin.

“Stop!” Draco shouted. But the elf hadn’t heard him. “Dobby, stop that this instant!”

Finally, Dobby stopped. “Young Master is not finding this punishment enough for Dobby?” it asked, eyes weary and resigned. “Young Master wants Dobby to stick his hand into the fireplace instead?”

“No!” Draco exclaimed, then quickly closed his mouth. “I mean – you’ve got big enough ears; you’ve heard me! Thought you’d waste my time, did you? Get out, you stupid elf!”

Draco thought he’d seen the creature glance at him out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked back, its gaze was firmly fixed to the side. “…Of course, Master Draco,” Dobby finally acquiesced.

The house-elf disapparated with a _crack_.

-oOoOo-

It took Draco ten minutes to prepare himself for breakfast – just long enough to pry an appropriate set of robes out of his wardrobe, wash his face, and gel his hair. Malfoys did _not_ appear unkempt, his father had emphasized. They were the pinnacle of wizarding society, and they would act as such.

Still, Draco knew that it was ten minutes too many. His palm clenched around the corner of the cold hallway wall. The churning in his stomach grew worse at the thought of food; no doubt he’d make his father even angrier, if he couldn’t manage to eat any of it.

He breathed in deeply, focusing back on his conversation with Dobby. The elf hadn’t met Draco’s eyes. Of course, his family had cursed the creature for less than staring at its betters. All the same, Draco had never known Dobby to be so despondent.

He knew that his father made the elf punish itself, should it fail to meet his standards. (And there _was_ no meeting the man’s standards.) Yet he’d never before seen it _bleed._ And – fire! The first time Draco had used the Floo, he’d been terrified that the flames would eat him alive. Had Dobby been forced to subject himself to that? What worse might Draco’s father do to _him_ if he irked the man?

“Draco?” his mother’s voice called from the adjacent room. “Is that you, dear?”

He swallowed, moving his hand from the wall towards his collarbone. He needed to think like a Slytherin. Waiting around to further provoke the man would do him no favours.

“Yes, mother,” he answered, striding into the dining hall. The table was made of sleek mahogany, extending near a dozen feet from where he stood. He forced himself to look towards its head. Lucius Malfoy was gripping a tall, thin glass, lips pressed together firmly. Stone-grey eyes honed in on him, then towards the seat on the man’s left.

Draco gulped. He stepped cautiously across the room, pulling out the chair as quietly as he could. Its polished surface pressed against his back, nearly as hard as his father’s smile.

“Draco,” the man drawled, scathingly. “You’re late.”

A mug of steaming tea appeared beside Draco’s plate. Black and unsweetened, yet not so acrid as Lucius Malfoy’s tone. Draco swung his head to the side, but the elf had already disapparated again.

“I…yes. I’m sorry father. It won’t happen again,” Draco replied carefully. He tried to think of an excuse, but could come up with none that wouldn’t convey some sort of weakness. His father would scoff if he were to talk of _nightmares_.

“…Indeed?” the man whispered. This time, there was no hint of emotion in his voice.

Draco’s fingers curled around the left edge of his seat, hidden by the sleeve of his robes, while using his right to stir his drink. Too many times when he’d been young, he’d woken up terrified in the middle of the night. His mum would offer him honeyed milk, rubbing his back until his eyes drooped closed. The sweetness always helped soothe his nerves.

“My dear,” she said from the opposite side of the table. “Careful, now. You don’t want to be late for our trip to Diagon Alley.” Her tone was soft and warm, like the comforting liquid seeping through Draco’s lips. His gaze moved from the obsidian mug to glance up at his mother.

Draco froze.

Her dark blue eyes crinkled as they peered back at him. Her skin, despite its characteristic paleness, was filled with a faint red hue from the blood coursing through her veins. And, a haunting voice whispered in Draco’s mind – _she was so very alive._

Draco’s fork slipped out of his hands, clattering onto the table. “Sorry,” he exclaimed, snatching up the silverware. Malfoys were _not_ clumsy. He attempted to pile some of the biscuits onto his plate, but found his vision beginning to blur, a faint sensation of wetness trickling down his cheeks.

“Draco?” a concerned voice echoed. His heart was pounding in his chest. Waves of nausea coursed through his stomach, thrashing and spiralling into a raging tsunami. How very _unbecoming_ of a Malfoy. His father was going to kill him. He –

Draco jerked his chair back, standing up and sprinting down the hallway. He hid in a tiny corner by the grand staircase, far enough from the kitchen that his parents shouldn’t hear him. Sinking to the floor with his head propped on his knees, he began to cry. This wasn’t good. His father didn’t like tears. Yet Draco could not bring himself to stop. His mind was filled with fleeting images – destruction, _death_ , one sole decaying hand, alone and forgotten – that faded as soon as they appeared.

Draco didn’t know why he was so distraught. Because he had seen his mother? The woman looked after him every day. Never before had he felt so _concerned_ for her, and so _scared_ of his father. Never since he was a very young child had he so quickly and easily lost his composure.

“Draco, dear? Are you quite all right?” Her voice carried through the hall. Draco’s knees started shaking a little less. He didn’t respond; not until her foot bumped into his, and two soft hands cradled Draco’s arms. She took one glance at his face, and gently exhaled. “Draco,” she whispered. “What’s wrong, my love?” Her fingers brushed away his tears, and Draco finally looked up.

“Mum,” he whispered. He didn’t say any more than that. She wrapped him into a gentle hug, and Draco’s tears finally began to dry.

-oOoOo-

By the time he arrived at Diagon Alley – mid-afternoon, judging by the position of the sun near its apex – his eyes were no longer puffy, and the tremors in his limbs had all but died down. No-one should be able to tell about his previous breakdown. And were someone to ask Draco, he would assure them that he had not cried since infancy, thank-you, and would they mind their own bloody business?

“Will you be okay by yourself, dear?” His mother rested a hand on his shoulder. “Lucius or I could stay while you get fitted.”

Draco stared up at his father. His eyes were cold, mouth twisted into a permanent sneer. Draco balked. “That’s alright, mother. I’ll be fine. I’ll be off to Hogwarts on my own soon.”

Her hand gave a comforting squeeze. “I’ll be browsing through Gregorovitchs and Ollivanders. If your father or I aren’t back by the time you’re done, be sure to wait here for us.”

He nodded, and his mum began walking towards the wand shops. “Draco,” his father warned. He did not finish his statement, and he did not need to. With a sharp tap of his cane, the man turned and stalked off towards Knockturn Alley.

The young Slytherin took in a deep breath, then pushed open the glass doors. Madam Malkin was a plump woman with a jovial face, who popped towards the storefront as Draco entered. “Hullo, dear,” she greeted, reminding Draco quite of his mother. “Hogwarts, too? Got the crowd of students coming in this past week, though not too busy during lunch time. Come on in, then.”

The witch trailed off towards the back of the shop, and Draco pushed through the rows of ties, robes, and trousers to follow her. “Just got to step up here,” she instructed with a smile, pointing towards a footstool to the left side. “And we’ll get you fixed up. Now, would you like a standard set, or full? That’d be three additional sets of dress robes, and you could get a set of four ties charmed to match your house colours – ”

“Full, please,” Draco interrupted. Madam Malkin said something in reply, but he wasn’t much listening. His attention had been captured by a peculiar sight through the far-right window. A giant man and a small, lithe boy near Draco’s age were quickly approaching the store.

The woman’s eyes flew upwards. “Be right back, dear,” she promised. “Got another customer coming in. My assistant here will take measurements for you.”

Madam Malkin briskly took off. She must have some sort of charm placed on the front doors, Draco reasoned, to alert her when new people entered. As a tall, black-haired witch began to measure the length of Draco’s arms, the bespectacled boy from outside crept into the back room. His head was tipped downwards, uncertainly, but his eyes shone with curiosity and wonder.

 _Avada Kedavra_ green eyes, Draco noted, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Just the thought of the spell caused his throat to constrict, made him feel dirty and sickened. ~~~~

The boy, oblivious to Draco’s inner turmoil, climbed onto the seat next to him at the older witch’s prodding. Draco thought he ought to have recognized the stranger, though he couldn’t for the life of him determine from where.

Perhaps he had sensed Draco’s staring, because the boy finally looked up. “Hello,” he whispered, adjusting his glasses. The black frames had several scratches on them, evidently subjected to quite a bit of wear. Draco resisted the urge to sniff disdainfully.

“Hello,” he responded with a nod. “Are you also going to Hogwarts, then?”

“Yes,” the boy answered, then paused.

“Any idea what house you’ll be in?” Draco continued, speaking the first thing that came to mind. He wondered if he should have asked. There was no point talking to blood traitors and Mudbloods longing for Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. Yet he didn’t want to antagonize the first wizard his own age he’d met – outside of family parties and social gatherings.

“Err, no,” the boy replied.

Draco frowned. “Well, I’m hoping for Slytherin, of course. It’s by far the best house, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well,” the other shrugged. “Why Slytherin, then?”

“ _Why_ Slytherin?” Draco repeated, incredulously. “Everyone knows all the most powerful witches and wizards have gotten sorted there. It’s tradition, for the Malfoy family.” Draco’s mouth suddenly tasted ashy. His father had been in the house, too.

The boy’s lips turned downwards. “I see.”

“Why,” Draco continued. “What did you say your surname was again? I’m Draco Malfoy – ”

“All done, dear,” Madam Malkin interjected, lightly pushing the other off the stool. She turned towards Draco, scrutinizing him while pinching the edges of his sleeves. “Yes, that should work nicely,” she hummed. “Just about for you too, dear. Cressida will send you off when you’re ready.”

And just like that, the two were gone. “Hurry up, will you?” Draco snapped at the gangly witch, still pinning back pieces of cloth. She pursed her lips, yanking the hems just a little tighter, but didn’t vocally acknowledge his outburst.

By the time she’d finally finished, Draco had again spotted the smaller boy through the window, this time walking away from the store. The front was empty save for Madam Malkin herself. Two glass panes pushed open next to Draco as his mother entered through the doorway. She smiled affectionately down at him and walked over towards the counter, tossing a small silver pouch onto its surface.

“I trust that should cover the costs,” she stated. Draco watched as Madam Malkin opened it, counting out a handful of galleons. “We’ll pay for owl delivery to Malfoy Manor.”

The older witch smiled as she handed back two of the coins to his mum. Draco wondered if she ever frowned at anything. “To be sure, Mrs. Malfoy,” she agreed formally. When his mother had turned around, she gave Draco a wink. “Best of luck at Hogwarts, dear.”

Narcissa prodded him out of the shop, and Draco found himself once again on the cobbled roads of Diagon. “Ollivanders,” she noted, “does seem to have the superior craftmanship this year. A far larger selection, too. I fear old Gregorovitch may be starting to lose his touch in his age. Shame, there. He produced a great many wands for the Black family.”

Draco blinked. “I thought you got your wand from Ollivanders, mum? And isn’t he just as old as Gregorovitch?” Without his father around, he needn’t constantly address her as ‘mother’. In these few moments, Draco could let his stone-cold pureblood mask slip.

“Most likely, dear,” his mum agreed. “Age brings ability just as often as it brings weakness. And not me, but my mother – a few cousins, too.”

“Narcissa,” a cold voice cut through the air. Lucius Malfoy was standing behind them, clutching a small parcel in his left hand. “Draco. I trust you’ve finished purchasing your robes?”

“Yes, father,” Draco nodded. The older man’s eyes narrowed as he shoved the package into an inner pocket of his cloak.

“Come along, Draco,” his mother beckoned, turning to the right. As Draco started down the alley, he could just make out the old, stone bricks and yellow-tinted windows of the wandmaker’s shop.

The door jingled as it opened, but neither Draco nor his parents had raised a finger. An old man with messy grey hair and bushy eyebrows stood in the entranceway before them. His lips were twisted downwards into a thoughtful, though not unkind, expression.

“Narcissa Malfoy,” the man acknowledged, in a gravelly yet strong voice. “Willow and dragon heartstring. Eleven and a half inches, supple. Well-suited for transfiguration.”

His mother smiled reservedly, a rare occurrence when greeting those outside her family. “Hello, Ollivander.”

Ollivander glanced over towards Lucius, and the wand embedded within the man’s cane. Though he met the elder Malfoy’s eyes, he did not make any comments regarding its wood or core. It was impolite to inquire about such personal details, especially for wands one did not make.

Finally, the old man’s eyes drifted down towards Draco. His eyebrows rose just slightly – though whether in acknowledgement or surprise, the young Slytherin couldn’t tell. “And you must be Draco Malfoy,” Ollivander whispered.

Draco did not ask how the wizard had known his name.

Ollivander smiled, but it was a grim and somber smile. His eyes peered carefully at Draco, as if seeing something about the young wizard that he himself didn’t. The man was silent for a few moments, before finally turning on his foot and marching towards the stack of boxes lining the back of the shop.

Draco could feel his pulse thrumming. A soft sensation of magic pervaded the air, a constant _hum_ that distracted Draco from his senses. When he again looked up, Ollivander had already returned, holding a thin, jet black case. He carefully extracted a long, dark wand, pressing it into Draco’s hands.

“Chestnut and dragon heartstring,” the old man explained. “Twelve inches, quite rigid. Go on, then.”

Draco raised his arm. To his annoyance, the wand was immediately snatched from his grasp, then just as quickly replaced. “Poplar and phoenix feather,” Ollivander continued. “Nine and a half inches, surprisingly swishy.” This wand felt gentler than the first, but still a sensation of _wrongness_ coursed through Draco’s fingertips.

Ollivander must have sensed the same, because he was soon presented with yet another. But each one Draco tested felt dull and dead. None of them were _his_ wand. When he found _his_ , he would know, his mother had said. It would _sing_ to him, guiding the magic from his hands in an eruption of pure exhilaration and power –

Draco’s gaze darted around the shop. A flash of blue, plain and unassuming, hid behind a myriad of boxes in the far corner. “What about that one?” Draco pointed, averting Ollivander’s attention from the stack before them.

The old wizard blinked, then looked from Draco’s hand up to the wall. And he’d be damned if the man’s eyes didn’t gleam, as if he’d simply been _waiting_ for Draco to point it out.

“My,” Ollivander rasped. “Very astute, Mr. Malfoy.” His steps echoed across the hard stone floor. Two hands, white and veiny, carefully picked up the navy box. When it was placed on the counter, Draco’s fingers twitched. He’d made a mistake; he _couldn’t_ use this wand – and surely the old wizard needed to put it back _right now_. But Draco’s voice didn’t work, and his chest burned as Ollivander carefully pried off the lid.

“Hawthorn and unicorn hair,” the man announced, resting the delicate instrument in his palms. “Ten inches, reasonably springy.” His focus shifted from the wand to Draco, eyes squinting. *“A wood as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth. Whose leaves blossom and heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death.” He held it out for Draco to take.

The Slytherin hesitated. His hands felt clammy, yet tingly, and he discreetly wiped them along the interior of his robes. The wand was whispering, laughing, crying its tale of loss, slaughter, and new life. He shook his head. Power instilled fear, his father had said, and fear instilled respect. Yet this wand was less fearsome than it was afraid, just like Draco.

Gathering his nerve, he grasped the hilt, then swept his hand high into the air. Finally, that feeling of _rightness_ pervaded Draco’s senses, and the store was showered in blue and green sparks. Ollivander’s eyebrows rose, but he did not blink. “They say that the wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Malfoy,” he simply remarked. The man seemed to be looking _through_ Draco rather than at him, and Draco suppressed the urge to turn and see what he was staring at.

“How very…peculiar,” Lucius Malfoy sneered.

Ollivander’s gaze shifted from Draco towards his father. “Peculiar, indeed,” he agreed, beckoning for Draco to hand him back the wand. “After all, it takes a great deal of power to face death and walk away to tell the tale.”

The galleons clanked sharply against the granite counter as Ollivander re-packaged their purchase. Lucius Malfoy grabbed the box, tucking it into his cloak alongside the parcel. Draco knew better than to protest. Once he arrived at Hogwarts, he’d never again let anyone take it.

As Draco made to follow his parents out the door, he was interrupted by a quiet voice. “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Malfoy. Every single one,” it whispered, so softly that Draco was scarcely sure he’d heard it. “I must say, this is the first time I’ve sold a wand twice.”

Draco whipped his gaze back towards the counter, but Ollivander was no longer there.

-oOoOo-

“Mum,” Draco murmured. He’d made sure to wait until they were alone, not wanting his father to overhear. She was reclining on a futon in the lounge, clutching a dark, thin book. Which was rather strange, Draco thought – because although his mother was a very intelligent woman, she’d never cared much for reading.

“Yes, dear?” his mother replied, tilting the text slightly. Draco could now just make out the title – _Poisons and Curses for Internal Organs_ – and swallowed. Narcissa Malfoy was living proof that a smart witch or wizard was a dangerous one.

“I…” he trailed off. Proper purebloods could articulate themselves. He stumbled over his words nearly as much as Crabbe and Goyle, yet Draco’s fear of sounding stupid prevented him from speaking freely. “Mum, Ollivander never re-sells old wands, does he?”

She crinkled her nose, looking upwards from the book. “Of course not, dear. No respectable wizarding family would accept hand-me-downs. Why would you ask such a thing?” Her voice was filled with disdain, but not directed towards Draco.

“Oh, right,” Draco squeaked. There he was, betraying his anxiety again – had his voice always been this high-pitched? He must have misheard in the shop; Ollivander would never say that to to Draco. And if his chest still felt just a little bit tight, then surely it was the excitement of going to Hogwarts so soon.

He turned away from his mother, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. He frowned as he heard her flick through yet another page. Draco didn’t often frequent the family library. Yet the thought of scouring the shelves, yellowed parchment crinkling between his fingertips, filled him with a strange sensation of familiarity. And that comforted Draco, because he was powerless against the unknown.

He twisted his index finger around his thumb. His father had been in his study that past hour, and was unlikely to come out soon. The library would be safe, then, and perhaps Draco might even learn something to impress his tutors before the end of the summer.

He’d climbed two floors of cold, ceramic steps before finally arriving at the room. The tall, red doors were shut firmly, though Draco was sure his mother had been there not long before. Still, she would hardly have left them ajar – and even if she had, one of the house-elves would have soon closed them.

Draco grasped the handle and pried open the entrance. The room lit automatically as he entered, dozens of shelves stretching before him. The potions section was at the very back, he knew, and was the area of greatest interest to Draco. The repetitive stirring and cutting motions had always helped calm his thoughts. Though he was not allowed near the supplies unsupervised, he still enjoyed learning about the art.

He had not been expecting to find the invoice, sticking out from a gap in the bottom row. _Puniscelain’s Potions_ , it read – a shop in Knockturn that his father often frequented. There was no list of any items bought. Instead, only a sum total was included at the bottom. For 53 galleons, Draco imagined it must’ve been quite the hefty purchase.

The door hinges whined, and Draco startled. “Worthless!” Lucius Malfoy rasped. “A disgrace to this manor! If you can’t listen to direct orders, then perhaps I ought to cut your ears off – or make you do it yourself!”

Draco clambered backwards until his heels pressed against the wall. The charmed lighting in the room flickered off, ignorant to his presence. Drowning in the darkness, _again_ , desperate gasps – but he could not be heard. “Yes, Master,” a faint voice agreed. “Dobby is sorry, Master.”

Wood slammed against marble as the doors opened fully. Now everything was bright, _too_ bright, and Draco felt exposed in his pathetic hiding spot. Lucius Malfoy’s cane thumped against the white tiles, his steps measured and quiet. He came closer, and closer, until Draco was certain he would be found. But he hadn’t done anything wrong, he reasoned – yet he knew his father would not care.

Lucius’ shadow passed over Draco. He did not dare breathe, for he was sure that his father would hear. The man’s hand snaked through the gap – a soft rustling of paper, a swish of cloth, the heavy thud of several returned tomes. And through the adjacent aisle, his father walked farther still, until only a few measly paperbacks separated them. There was a pale streak of light as his fingers pried out yet another text, and no matter how far back Draco crouched, he was sure that his feet were just visible.

Two books, then three, were extracted from the row. There were a few moments of silence, as his father’s wrist rested upon the ledge. Slowly, the man’s shadow lowered, until just on par with Draco’s frozen form.

Then there was the sharp snap of a book being shut, and again the harsh thudding of Lucius Malfoy’s cane. He could feel the vibrations through the floor dying away as his father retreated. The door groaned, until only the slimmest gap laid between it and the wall. But Draco's lungs burned, desperate for air, and he nearly choked as he exhaled. The door handle rattled as Lucius Malfoy released it. Slowly, he turned around, until he was staring at Draco’s exact spot. ~~~~

But the room again dimmed, and Lucius Malfoy humphed, shutting the door behind him tightly. This time, he counted to ten before allowing himself to breathe. The illumination charm should not have failed, not when the walls were spelled to recognize life within them. He crept back towards the front of the aisle, eyes adjusting to the darkness, but the receipt he’d found earlier was gone.

-oOoOo-

“Unicorn hair,” Lucius Malfoy sneered, staring coldly down at Draco. “Phoenix feather, dragon heartstring – all reasonable options. A good wand for the Dark Arts, for wizards of true _power._ Yet despite all of this, you’ve managed a wand made of _unicorn hair.”_

Draco looked downwards. He dared not speak his mind – that he’d never before felt truer to himself than while holding _his_ wand, as if a part of him had been caged away and only now set free. Yet he did not have a death wish, and judging by the look in his father’s eyes, he did not doubt that stating so would get him killed.

“I’m sorry, father,” he said instead. Draco was never a good actor. Oh, he needed to be – the best Slytherins were. But he’d never had such careful control over his emotions, and perhaps just a tiny amount of bitterness seeped into his words.

Lucius Malfoy’s eyes flamed. “You _idiot_ boy,” he hissed, raising his cane, and Draco screamed. His mum had been out shopping at Diagon, hadn’t been there to treat Draco’s wounds, and by the time he’d trudged up the steps to his room he’d been broken and bleeding. His right cheek was swollen, his forearm marked by a searing gash, and Draco could only cry.

That was how Dobby had found him – trying to hide his sniffles in the folds of his robes while wrapping old fabric around the broken skin. He didn’t know how to heal it, not yet, and Merlin knew Draco’s father would rather see him in pain.

The house-elf watched Draco, had looked into his eyes, this time. It said something, Draco was sure, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then the creature grasped Draco’s wrist, and the pain in his limb began to fade.

Draco snatched his hand away, causing the elf to stumble backwards. “Dobby is sorry, Master Draco,” it squeaked, climbing again to its feet. “But sir is not hearing Dobby. Dobby nots want to see Young Master hurt.”

Draco glanced down at his arm. In place of the gaping wound was only a thin red scar, still stinging just slightly. He re-covered it with his sleeve. Should his father see it, he’d become even angrier than before. And if the man knew Dobby had helped Draco –

“Old Master is dangerous man,” Dobby spoke up. “Hurts Master Draco, buys horrible potions to make Dobby be testing. Evil wizard.” The house-elf’s eyes darted to the side. “Dobby cannot say such things, _bad_ Dobby! Oh, but Dobby _must_.”

“…Potions?” Draco asked, but Dobby didn’t elaborate. “Sir must be staying away from Older Master,” it continued. “Young Master be safer at Hogwarts. Older Master almost seeing you’s in the library. Dobby needing to disable the lighting charms.”

“That was you?” Draco’s eyes widened. “I – but my father had only just – how – ?”

“Dobby supposed to be polishing the furniture,” it answered. “But he knew Older Master be coming to search for something. Be very angry to find Master Draco.”

Draco stared. “But, your ears – ”

Dobby frowned. “House-elves be having good healing magic.”

Draco shut his eyes. And, for the first time in his life, he whispered, “Thank-you, Dobby.”

-oOoOo- 

“Make sure to write,” his mother insisted. “And to eat properly. I don’t want to hear of you snacking on sweets before finishing your meals.”

“I know, mu – mother,” Draco sighed. For all it was worth, he liked having one parent who cared about him. Hogwarts was an environment entirely unfamiliar to Draco, and would be filled with many new faces. He’d met a few other pureblood children, of course – Zabini, Parkinson, Greengrass, Nott – but he hardly knew them. Draco had spent most of his time alone in the manor, and had learned how to keep himself busy.

Lucius Malfoy’s eyes were impassive, his chin raising just slightly. Draco would have preferred the man hadn’t acknowledged him at all. He forced himself to nod back, not wanting to draw his father’s ire. Quickly, he drew his gaze back towards his mum. He did not want to leave her alone with the man, though he knew that his presence would hardly help.

“I’ll owl you as soon as I’m sorted,” he promised. “And as often as I can, after.” Then, in a slightly quieter tone, “I love you, mother.”

She bent down next to him. “I love you too, Draco,” she whispered, giving him a soft hug. “More than anything.” Draco might have been embarrassed, had he not been so worried. His chest felt warm; he’d not see her until Yule.

Lucius scoffed, and his mother again stood. She’d already helped him load his luggage onto the train. He’d need to find a compartment – preferably an empty one, where he could collect his thoughts. At Hogwarts, he’d be expected to socialize with the right sort, to ally himself with the heirs of pureblood families. But for now, he just wanted to be alone.

Draco would not let himself cry, he _would not_ – not in front of all these people. He was simply feeling tired, yes; he’d been tossing and turning all night. He feared for his mother, feared not getting into Slytherin, feared messing up his public image. He feared too much; he was weak, always weak. Perhaps if he could find somewhere quiet, he’d be able to sleep.

His family had insisted on coming early, of course, and Draco thought one of the compartments near the end should be vacant. Hopefully, if he hurried, he wouldn’t be bothered along the way. Many students stood conversing with their friends in the aisle, though none that Draco knew. If any of them recognized him, he darted by too quickly for them to notice.

One timid boy in a compartment by himself looked up as Draco passed. He didn’t say anything, and Draco hardly paid mind to greet the other. He heaved a sigh of relief as he reached the final room, filled only with plump blue seats and light streaming through the opposite window.

“Colloportus!” he hissed towards the door, which shut itself rather tightly against the wall. The incantation had struck him as eerily familiar when he’d stumbled across it in their first-year Charms text, and was one of the few Draco could actually cast. It wouldn’t fend against a simple _Alohomora,_ but at least he’d have warning should anyone try to open it. He could close his eyes now without fear of being found in such a vulnerable state.

When Draco awoke, it was to a soft thudding by the entrance. “Hello?” a girl’s voice rang. “Is anyone in there?” And then that incessant knocking again, jolting Draco from his drowsy stupor. He considered not answering, but the noise wouldn’t stop.

Annoyed, Draco cancelled the locking charm, then slid open the door. His first thought, when he saw the girl, was that her hair really _was_ quite bushy. His second was that the tome she was clutching looked rather heavy – ** _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms,_ the spine read, in bright silver letters. Her foot was tapping impatiently on the floor, as if Draco had been the one to inconvenience _her_ by waiting so long. And, Draco finally noticed, the shy boy from earlier was standing behind her, eyes red and puffy.

“Sorry to bother you,” the girl remarked, though she didn’t sound it. “But have you seen a toad? Neville here’s lost one.”

“No,” Draco said curtly, and closed the door again. He sighed, slinking back down into his seat. Neither of the two had borne house crests on their robes – first years then, just like him. And that _book_ ; Ancient Runes wasn’t covered until third year, at earliest! Memorizing and interpreting the patterns had always given Draco a headache.

He rubbed his fingers against his temple. Ancient Runes? He didn’t know anything _about_ Ancient Runes. Slowly, his eyes drifted closed; he clearly hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

-oOoOo-

_It was just a simple circle._

_Draco couldn’t draw it. The chalk kept slipping from his fingertips, leaving tiny squiggles dispersed throughout. It was too tall and narrow, too short and wide. He would need to erase it and try yet again. There could be no mistakes._

_“The annulus,” she stated, “is an important symbol in magical graphology. Two concentric circles, lifelines – each without a beginning or end. The cycle of life and death.”_

_The words felt so wrong, but she was far too right. Everyone he knew had been butchered, slaughtered, leaving Draco as but a shadow of his former self. He was gone, gone,_ gone _, only two mindless hands sketching upon the asphalt._

 _“Have you ever thought,” he whispered, only half aware of his words. “That this might all just be a dream? The Death Eater deserter and the Muggle-born witch, rare pair of survivors against_ his _rule.” Draco’s eye twitched; too right, too right. The both of them had already gone to hell._

_She’d taught him about muggle religions. He hadn’t realized what they were, at first, had merely been asking what she thought of their fate. Eternal paradise or torment, rebirth in the body of another, simply ceasing to be. Two straight lines, carefully etched in the centre of the rings. The script would be Draco’s liberation, and his end._

-oOoOo-

The twelve-foot troll stomped closer towards him, its sluggish steps sending vibrations through the ground. Large, dirty feet sprouted into stout legs, then a fat, bulging torso. Its arms, thick and elongated, raised its heavy club over its shoulder. Draco recoiled, head slamming against hard cement. Behind him stood only a thick grey wall, stretching infinitely into the horizon. He would become mincemeat, to be chewed on and spat out. There was no escape.

"WHAM!" Draco jolted upwards. He’d only meant to close his eyes; when had he let himself lay down? He looked frantically towards the compartment door, but it was still shut. His clothes had become wrinkled and dishevelled _–_ he’d need to freshen up, before anyone could see.

He pulled quietly on the handle, leaving only a small gap between himself and the aisle. Several students were shouting rambunctiously, shoes hammering upon the ground. He opened the door a little wider, then, just enough to see a large, brown trunk laying haphazardly on its side. “It’s only a levitation charm, Chrissy,” a tight voice giggled. “Can you really not do it yet?”

None of them were looking at Draco. The adjacent room, mere feet away, led to the loo. If he could just sneak in without anyone noticing —

“Come on, then,” a deep voice shouted. “Don’t dilly dally; grab yer things. ‘Less you’d like a ride back to King’s Cross!”

Draco backed further into the compartment. The man who’d spoken was just visible through the crack in the door. His hulking frame was draped in long, black robes, with a silver badge above his breast. The air was still, and Draco only now realized he couldn’t feel the acceleration of the train.

The door slid open before Draco could react. The conductor’s eyes snapped towards him. “You there! What’re ye still doing on board?” he exclaimed. “We’ve been ‘ere five minutes! Stop lollygaggin’ around and get movin’!”

Draco did not need to be told twice. He ran his fingers down the creases of his garments, desperate to appear at least somewhat presentable. The bottom step of the stairs was a few feet off the ground, and he nearly tripped as he hurried down.

“First years! First years, over ‘ere!” The same gruff man Draco had met in Diagon was holding up a lantern in the darkness of the platform. His facial hair was long and matted – Draco could only hope _he_ didn’t look so unkempt.

He followed after the giant man, trying to avoid the attention of his peers. Finally, they reached a large, dark lake, its surface shimmering in the moonlight. “No more than four ter a boat!” the gamekeeper shouted, taking one all for himself. Draco clambered into one so half-mindedly that he didn’t even notice its occupants.

“ _You_ ,” a loud voice accused. Draco turned to face a rather tall boy, with far too many freckles and carrot-coloured hair. But he wasn’t looking at Draco. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the girl from the train, whose lips were pursed into an indignant frown. ~~~~

“Well, that’s not a polite way to greet someone, is it?” she said, sitting down beside Draco. “I’d only forgotten to tell you – I had to help Neville search for his toad – but you don’t have to be so _rude.”_

The boy groaned, before turning to stare at Draco. “Who’re you?” he asked, still sounding decidedly annoyed. The hems of his robes were shabby and worn. A _Weasley_ , then, judging by that orange mop. And Draco was stuck on a boat with him.

He’d no desire to converse with the git; introductions would hardly go over well. For a few moments, there was complete silence. Weasley’s face started to turn rather pink.

“Malfoy,” he finally stated when he could stand the tension no longer. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh,” came a voice from the opposite end of the boat. Hidden behind Weasley was a familiar boy, with worn-out glasses and careful green eyes.

“I remember you,” said Draco. “From Madam Malkin’s, when I was purchasing my robes. You never told me your name.”

“I’m Harry,” he answered quietly, pushing his frames up the bridge of his nose.

Weasley scowled. “Don’t talk to him, Harry,” he said. “His family, dad says they supported You-Know-Who during the war. Bribed the Winzengamot to get off – ”

“Excuse-me,” Draco interrupted, stiffening. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Weasley.”

Weasley turned even redder. “I know to stay away from the likes of you, Malfoy!”

Draco’s mouth tasted like metal. “Oh, that’s a laugh,” he sneered. “Considering the riff-raff you come from. Everyone knows the Weasleys have more children than they can afford. I’m surprised you even got into Hogwarts. What, your family hasn’t depleted the school’s trust fund?”

Weasley nearly lunged at him, stopping only as the boat began to tilt. Draco’s fingers dug into the wood. The water, a murky sort of greenish black, threatened to spill over the top. He stared into their glittering depths, and could think only of being swallowed alive. He would drown – so cold, so hot – the water burning through his lungs. And he’d die; sweet Merlin, he’d _die_ –

“ – Scared?” Weasley derided. “What, afraid the Giant Squid will eat you? It’s a miracle you can even stand, Malfoy, you’ve got no spine.”

But Draco didn’t respond. He could hear only the roaring of the waves, perpetually crashing along the shore. The boat finally ceased its rhythmic rocking as it pulled up against the land. And amidst the sloshing of the tumultuous tides, a ringing chimed in his ears, its cry growing sharper and sharper still –

“– Hear me?” a soft voice echoed, but Draco could not pinpoint its source. Then something warm was pressing against his arm – that same arm his father had mangled so mercilessly.

“You – I – don’t touch me!” he exclaimed, pushing the girl off him. She backed away from him quite quickly, eyebrows scrunching together. He looked back towards the harbour, but the raging tsunami had disappeared. The inky water, flat and calm, winked back at him in the darkness.

Draco ran – away from the docks, up the rocky hill, and towards the towering doors of the castle. Mindlessly, he scuttled through the entranceway, until bathed in the torchlight of the enormous corridor.

Countless voices murmured from ahead, but Draco was alone. He simply stood in that empty spot, a soft chill pervading the air. Beside him appeared a woman so pale that he thought her perhaps a trick of the light. Her grey gown stretched nearly to the floor – _nearly_ , because her feet floated three inches above. He did not speak, and neither did she. For some seconds the two stood in comfortable silence, until she’d gone as quickly as she’d come.

Slowly, Draco forced himself forwards, his steps pattering on the stone ground. When he at last reached the gaggle of voices, he did his best to blend into the shadows. But a tall, graying woman had noticed Draco, narrowing her eyes down at him.

Maybe it was the squareness of his shoulders, or the tightness of his fists. But she did not scold Draco in front of his peers, her gaze flickering back towards the crowd. “When I open these doors,” she finally spoke. “You are all to remain completely quiet. The Sorting Ceremony is a revered tradition, and it will _not_ be interrupted.”

Then she pushed on the thick oak, and the students spewed into the gigantic hall. The air was illuminated by thousands of candles, flickering underneath the false night sky. In the front of the room, upon a simple wooden stool, sat the oldest hat Draco had ever seen.

Then it sang – his mother had never told him it _sang_. There could be no worse time for such a cheery tune. Draco’s stomach was in his feet, his feet having melted into the floor. The hat’s fate did not depend on this ceremony. _It_ need not worry about the consequences.

The stern-faced woman pried open a long scroll. “Abbott, Hannah!” she shouted to the hall, and a timid, blonde girl trotted upwards to the stool.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” cried the hat. The table second from the right erupted in cheers. One of Hannah’s new housemates clapped her on the back, another pouring her a glass of pumpkin juice.

One by one, the professor called their names. Draco did not look up throughout – not until that girl from before parted from the crowd. _Granger_ , had the woman said? A _Mudblood_ then, a mudblood had touched him! Draco’s mind trailed back to their meeting on the train – to that enormous book she’d held within her grasp. A Ravenclaw, to be sure. How pretentious, to believe she could grasp such a text.

“GRYFFINDOR!” shouted the hat, and Draco frowned. The insult tasted fresh on his tongue. A Mudblood could never be as smart as Draco; a Mudblood was _far_ smarter than Draco. Only he’d seen her blood, seeping through her skin, sliced open by one overpowered _Diffindo._ Draco was no healer, but he’d had to try, and he’d shaken as he’d lifted the cloth – stained not brown, but red, so vibrantly red.

Red, like the new crest adorning her robes, but framed along the sides with gold. Why had Draco been staring so? He snapped his gaze back towards the front, a heavy sinking in his chest. Five letters, until Draco’s name would be called – then four, then three. There was “Longbottom, Neville!” and then “Macmillan, Ernie!”, whom the hat took only mere seconds to sort.

“Malfoy, Draco!” the woman finally cried. All eyes rested on his frozen form. Draco gulped, slowly treading towards the stool. These moments would decide his entire life.

When she placed the hat on his head, it just covered his eyes. Which was quite good, Draco thought, because he could no longer see all the inquisitive faces staring back at him. He’d always highly valued privacy; a _hat_ that performed Legilimency was bad enough as it was.

 _‘I am not that bad, you know,’_ the hat responded. Draco startled, pushing the brim upwards. The hat had not talked to any of the others, had it? But none of the older students seemed surprised. A few Gryffindors in the back were whispering to their friends, while the Slytherins were stock still, eyes assessing and expectant.

 _‘Relax, Mr. Malfoy,’_ the hat continued. _‘Our conversation is taking place only in your mind. None of the rest can hear.’_

Draco resisted the urge to pull the hat back down again. _‘Get on with it, then,’_ he thought, impatiently. _‘Sort me into Slytherin.’_

 _‘So much haste,_ ’ it tutted. _‘Though I cannot deny that you were once a Slytherin. But much has changed, Mr. Malfoy.’_

Draco stilled. He had envisioned this moment countless times, fearing for the worst on the most restless nights. He’d never been brave, but the hat would sort him into Gryffindor just the same. Or worse – Hufflepuff! – to match that _loyal_ unicorn-hair wand of his. Draco’s father would be outraged, would pull him from the school and send him off to Durmstrang. He’d be apparated to the Manor first, away from prying eyes. The man would lift his cane, and Draco would quiver as he braced himself for the next curse or strike.

Draco’s fingers pushed harder into the leather. He glanced towards the head table at the opposite end of the hall. At its centre sat a tall old man, white beard stretching down past its surface. Albus Dumbledore’s eyes were calm, but curious, with a calculating gleam to them that set Draco on edge. Order of Merlin, First Class; the largest threat to the Dark Lord’s reign – and Draco had murdered him in cold blood, because he hadn’t thought the boy capable.

But that wasn’t right; he hadn’t been able to muster the nerve. Clearly, Dumbledore was alive and well. Draco had never even seen the man in person before today. He looked upwards into the hat’s black folds, mind grainy and fuzzy. A deep buzzing hummed in his ears, dragging him from his stupor. He’d been thinking about something, something important – but what?

The more Draco tried to focus, the more fragmented his thoughts became. He had failed, was so weak, but his refusal made him strong. He’d need to convince the Sorting Hat, or face the end of his father’s wand.

 _‘You said things have changed,’_ Draco thought. _‘But they haven’t. I’m still just as worthy – !’_

 _‘Worth is about a lot more than being in Slytherin,’_ the hat sighed, slowly. ‘ _Merlin himself was in Slytherin house. A powerful man, yes, but more importantly, one with the burning desire to become the best version of himself._

_‘But you – you’d prefer to protect the ones you love, to learn everything you can to help them. They say knowledge is power, Mr. Malfoy.’_

For a moment, Draco’s thoughts flitted. Malfoys were not in Ravenclaw, but perhaps _Draco_ could be. The house was respectable enough; his father wouldn’t murder him, at least, and his mum might even be proud. Then his gaze flickered to the rightmost table, across a long row of silver and green ties. Vincent Crabbe, already seated upon the wooden bench, stared back. His lips twitched upwards – not into a smirk, or a sneer, but a genuine _smile_. For the boy was still eleven, and considered Draco less an ally than a friend.

He wouldn’t stay so innocent, but neither would Draco. Still, he hadn’t deserved to _burn alive_. Draco had tried to save him, to stop the screams, but in the end it hadn’t mattered. He’d died just the same, and it was all Draco’s fault.

He shook his head. _Fire_ – why had he been imagining fire? Draco shivered, glancing towards the left. _Fire._ The girl from the boat, sitting all by herself in the lion’s den. _Fire._ Weasely’s dark glower, angrier than the flames burning through his hair. And _ice_. Carefully poised bodies, standing so rigidly straight. For the first time, Draco truly _saw_ them – not Parkinson, Nott, and Zabini, but Pansy, Theo, and Blaise. And Draco, decked in blue and bronze, would be so close to them and yet so far away.

For the longest time, Draco had been alone. He’d ran, he’d hidden, desperate to distance himself from the pain. It was so much easier to forget. More than just surnames, they’d been his mates. They had burned, had fallen – for taking a life killed the caster just the same. He couldn’t fail them again.

 _‘Again?’_ whispered a tiny voice, but Draco hardly heard it. For very suddenly, his mind had frozen, sweat trailing down his skin. Again and _again_ his head throbbed, the hall becoming a blurry haze. His vision grew darker and darker, trapping him in an unremittent blackness. And the thought slipped away from Draco’s grasp, to those very darkest recesses of his mind.

Draco blinked, and his vision again cleared. The pain from before was completely gone. His peers began whispering more loudly; Draco’s sorting was taking a long time. The hat shifted on his head. _‘I stand by my decision,’_ it remarked. _‘But I will not sort any student where they feel they would not belong. If you’re sure_ – _’_

Draco closed his eyes. He hadn’t been sure of anything for a long time, but he knew that he wouldn’t abandon them.

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat shouted, to muted applause from his new housemates. Louder were McGonagall’s sharp steps as she strode back towards Draco. And as she reached to pry the hat off his head, it whispered ever so softly in his ear. _‘I’m afraid, Mr. Malfoy, that it’s time to remember.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco may occasionally come across as obnoxious in this chapter to more closely resemble his childhood self in canon. This should diminish once he regains his memories – which will happen shortly, but probably not in the way you’d expect. 
> 
> Although Ron and Hagrid have been described negatively in some scenes, this story will not contain any bashing. They are two of my favourite characters in the series, but eleven year old Draco wouldn’t exactly like them. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! 
> 
> Credits:
> 
> *“A wood…smell of death” is quoted directly from J.K. Rowling on Pottermore, as cited in the Harry Potter Wiki (available at https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Hawthorn#cite_ref-pottermore_2-0).
> 
> ** _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms_ is an Ancient Runes text referenced in _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix._
> 
> Some lines of dialogue in the train, Diagon Alley, and Sorting Ceremony scenes are paraphrased from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone._


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